All His Engines
by Mr.Mocko
Summary: A Wrestler's Story, Part 3: In Which There Is Methamphetamine And The Questionable Practice Of Doing A Nightly Diving Headbutt Onto Concrete.
1. The Shadow Of A Dream

_**All His Engines**_

Chapter 1: The Shadow Of A Dream

_You know the accusation._

_Always the same, rarely any deviance. Sometimes the scorn is light-hearted, and sometimes it's as smugly malicious as the best preening, self-satisfied critic can muster. But it's those same words, every time._

_Don't you know it's all fake?_

_I wonder what they would say, if they came into this world. If they saw just how…malleable the concept of reality is. How little their insult encompasses our truth._

_This is not an easy world. An easy road. It has no mercy and less kindness. It will gladly devour you whole, spit out the bones, and grind them under its heel, like it has done for countless hundreds and will do to legions more. If the people who set out on it knew this, I suspect our numbers, and the tragedies to go with it, would be considerably fewer._

_Yet we do. Sometimes, we even reach our dreams._

_I have not. Not yet. But I've made it further than most ever had. The fact that that puts me in the position of a nameless extra in a silly skit is irrelevant. I'm at Wrestlemania, the grandest stage of them all. It may as well be a universe away from the small gyms I started in, a mere five years ago._

_It might be the closest I ever get. A WWE development contract means little. In this company, you can damn yourself before you even get started. Any sane person would seek out a more stable life, a less perilous road. Most don't because they don't understand the larger aspects until it's too late._

_I always was thought to be too smart for my own good._

_My name is Astyanax Bleak. I'm currently backstage in the Allstate Arena in Chicago, this April 2__nd__. At least, as fitting as it was on that particular date, I don't feel as much as a fool as I did yesterday when I drove through Indiana with two very gassy co-workers to get here on the vague possibility we could get used. Not in matches, of course. As background detail. It's Wrestlemania (22, to be specific), and the spectacle (and the tiny roles needed in some parts of it) must be high. Triple H is getting dressed up as a damn barbarian king, for crisssakes (I really hope he doesn't carry his ever-present water bottle out with him when he makes his entrance with that, it's little details like that that can turn something from different to absurd), and I saw Rey Mysterio walking around in some giant bird headdress earlier. I think he's supposed to represent some kind of Aztec god, but he comes off as more of a giant chicken from the wrong angles. He should have stuck with the superhero theme he used in years past, if I may offer my own private opinion…_

_Oh, wait, you say. You question my name? You probably are thinking 'All right, then, you gave us your ring name, now please give us your real name'. Heh._

_That is my real name. I had it legally changed. It's on my driver's license._

_So perhaps you ask…why, oh why, Astyanax, would you take such a ridiculous name?_

_Well…_

_This business, this stage…it's all about the story. We all have one. And you, it seem, will be privy to mine._

_I will warn you, it could take some time to tell. That's not what concerns me though._

_My concern is whether anyone would pay money for it._

_Like I said before._

_This world is more real than most could ever grasp._

_And its reality…is often all of your world._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Wrestlemania 22. April 2<strong>__**nd**__**. The Allstate Arena, Chicago, Illinois.**_

"It's amazing." CM Punk said, staring at the monitor backstage as the match played out on it. "He's wrestling a sixty year old man, and he's making it entertaining."

"He's Shawn Michaels, Punk. I don't think he can have a bad match." Astyanax said, playing with his shirt collar. A small part of him regretted having cut his black hair short, but Astyanax had been picked to be a part of the main event (in a sense) where some of his fellows had not. Some had driven further than him to try for it. Any complaints the young man had about the haircut that had come with the selection were minimal, and being kept to himself.

"You should stop screwing with that. You'll piss someone off, and it's not like anyone came to this event to see you." CM Punk said.

"I suppose you're right…" Astyanax said, abandoning his efforts. Picking up a nearby towel, he dabbed at his forehead, hoping the relatively low amounts of sweat he'd emitted would be the trend. "So…we're supposed to be Prohibition-era gangsters."

"Yep."

"To contrast warrior-king Triple H."

"Yep."

"…Is Cena going to be wearing a zoot suit too?"

"Considering he's being fitted over there, doesn't look like it." CM Punk said, gesturing with his head. Astyanax followed the motion, his eyes settling on the WWE's heir apparent down the hallway. As it turned out, he was wearing his usual jean-short and T-Shirt combination; apparently he was going to wear a long coat over it along with a hat. And, based on what he was currently hefting, part of his entrance included a tommy gun.

"Oh no, he's armed and he's going to shoot everyone who booed him!" Astyanax said with quiet, light sarcasm. CM Punk smirked briefly and went back to watching the in-ring match.

"You clean up nice, Punk." Astyanax commented, briefly looking at his fellow wrestler's be-suited form.

"Don't tell the ladies."

"Like that would change much of anything." Astyanax said, before turning back to the mirror. Despite his best efforts, the thought that the shirt wouldn't provide the coverage of his neck he wanted ate at him. Maybe too much; his dark, semi-boyish, semi-rakish were starting to become pinched from the stress.

"Told you you shouldn't drink so much caffeine. It's got you all skittish." CM Punk said, though he didn't look away from the monitor.

"If you start on another straight-edge spiel, I will again remind you you have the Pepsi logo tattooed on your arm."

"Again, touché, and get some new material." CM Punk said.

"Maybe later." Astyanax said, checking his watch. "How much time you think the Triple Threat will go?"

"Dunno. Might cut some stuff due to the intros planned for the main."

"You know, if you get hired here proper, you're gonna have to stop doing the Pepsi Plunge."

"Good. I need my knees."

"Can this small talk get any more banal?"

"Knowing you? Probably. You love to ramble Annie. And I have had my fill." CM Punk said, getting up and rolling one of his shoulders. "Gonna head over near where we were told to meet up, wait there. See you."

"Later." Astyanax said, continuing to stare at the mirror. His reflection held no answers. A faint sound of music filled his ears; Michaels had apparently won his match. No real surprise there.

"…_Ad astra per aspera." _Astyanax said.

"A rough road leads to the stars." Another voice said. Astyanax recognized the voice, and he swallowed slightly, turning around to address the speaker. Despite being roughly the same height, Astyanax felt overwhelmed by the presence of the man. Even battered and still smelling faint of smoke, Mick Foley's 'aura', for lack of a better term, was not dimmed in the slightest.

"…yeah." Astyanax said. "You speak Latin, Mr. Foley." The lack of a question was purposeful; Mick Foley may have been one of the nicer people to hang around, from the little Astyanax knew, but he was still a twenty-year veteran who people had paid to see, while Astyanax was some random punk the hardcore legend had deemed to speak to after overhearing him say something he'd memorized from a calendar. As far as Astyanax was concerned, Mick Foley could speak every language in the world. That was the way it went, and Astyanax knew that.

"A snippet or two." Mick said. "You in the business, kid?"

"…yeah."

"Good words to know. Keep them in mind." Mick Foley said. A voice called from him from down the hall, and the legendary wrestler gave the young one a brief nod before moving on. Astyanax didn't know whether to give himself a private cheer or hide somewhere. In a business where you were repeatedly dropped on your head week in and week out, it was weird what could cause nervous stress.

"…well, I guess that phrase a day calendar wasn't a complete waste of three dollars after all." Astyanax said, and went looking for the nearest bathroom. He wanted to rinse his face before the chance was lost to him.

It didn't help his nerves. The whole period of time that followed, meeting up with his fellow 'gangsters', given a prop tommy gun of his own, and instructions on what to do for the entrance, passed in a blur. When Astyanax was in the 1930's car, Triple H's music thundering through the arena, it remained, a coiling twisting cold, right in the center of his being.

Until the entrance started. Until the metal ramp way rose, allowing the car to drive out. Until the doors opened, and the 'gangsters' within stepped out, performing their small piece of gathering around the ring, like they were scouting and providing support for Cena.

The man's music started. The audience reacted. Cena emerged in his weird hybrid outfit, firing his gun before heading down to the ring. The cameras had stopped paying attention to Astyanax and his fellows then, focusing on the proper, actual main event.

In the view of the public…the knot untangled. In the moments he had, Astyanax took in the sea of faces. The pinnacle of the spectacle that was professional wrestling entertainment.

He had but one lone thought, as he headed backstage. It followed him all the way back to his cheap motel, and all the way down to his sleep. He hadn't really had the feeling when he signed his developmental deal. There was a 50/50 chance that such a thing would be just a piece of paper in the end, and that provided little motivation.

But being out there, in his small role…was all that was needed.

Three little words.

_I want this._

* * *

><p><em>You are here now. Will you deem to listen?<em>

_This is my story. In the shadow of a dream. A dream shared by many, and achieved by so few. The odds don't favor me being among them. No matter my talents. No matter my desires._

_That may be its history…but I know my own lessons of history. The history of this business, and history overall._

_Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power._

_The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small._

_The bee fertilizes the flower it robs._

…_When it is dark enough…_

_You can see the stars._

* * *

><p>Writer's Note: This is a story I've pondered a long time, and have finally decided to try and write. To do so, I will have to take wrestling history as we know it, and sometimes make alterations, large and small. I will attempt to keep within the realm of realism with these changes, or as real as pro wrestling gets. Also, I will utilize both the characters of the wrestlers, and my best approximation (which might be utterly wretched, but I am only human, with limited information) of what the men and women behind the roles are like. Sometimes in that regard, I will sometimes be idealistic, and sometimes cynical. If you have any suggestions or information sources, I'll be glad to hear them.<p>

Here we go. I do hope you enjoy the ride.


	2. Idolatry

Chapter 2: Idolatry

_If you've never heard it before, there's a secret to success that people rarely talk about. To be successful, you need to work hard, have drive…_

_AND meet the right person who helped you along the path so that Factors 1 and 2 bear proper dividends. You can see why the successful rarely bring up the last one. Makes what they achieved seem…a little too much like luck._

_I'm not saying it's impossible to succeed without meeting people and networking, but the odds are definitely better. Sometimes, a little luck helps too._

_In my case, I was sitting in the office of JAPW (That's Jersey All Pro Wrestling, in case you were wondering), or more precisely one of the offices of the Rahway Rec Center, where they ran their monthly shows. They were getting ready for the February show, Revolution (this was in 2004), and I happened to be hanging around when the phone rang. I'm not entirely sure what I was doing in there; I think I might have been checking a phone book. Anyway, the call came, and with no one around, I answered it. It was some guy who was looking for a tag team called the Briscoe Brothers (not to be confused with the Brisco Brothers, one of whom, Gerald Brisco, achieved perhaps greater fame as a Vince McMahon stooge in his later years); I informed them they weren't in the building. The voice on the other end yelled at me, asking who I was. I gave them my name._

_Jim Cornette, who, as it turned out, was the caller, spent about a minute stumbling over trying to properly pronounce my first name before asking if he should know who I was (all in all, he seemed rather scattershot. Maybe he was having a busy day and the multi-tasking was getting in the way). I told him maybe. He said to send him a tape and hang up. I think, in retrospect, he was just looking for an out to the conversation._

_I, on the other hand, wasn't going to let it go. Cornette's a legend, and a known discoverer of talent. You know Glen Jacobs, aka Kane? Cornette found him, and for the sake of brevity I'll leave it at that. At the time, Cornette was head booker of Ohio Valley Wrestling, the WWE training stage. OVW is where John Cena trained, Randy Orton trained, and where Brock Lesnar trained (before he flaked out on wrestling entirely a few weeks after that phone call). True, it wasn't like all of their wrestlers had main evented Wrestlemania, but a possible opportunity is everything in this business. I quickly got out the general tape I use for self-promotion, put my name in big letters on the envelope, as well as 'THE TAPE YOU REQUESTED, MR. CORNETTE', and sent it off. I hoped the unusual signature on the package would keep him from throwing it in the trash._

_It worked. Cornette emailed me (I don't have a phone number, even now) a few weeks later, asking me if I wanted to come in and work a match. So I got on Sylvia, headed down to Ohio…and proceeded to stink the place up._

_Nothing is worse than thinking you blew an opportunity._

_Fortunately for me, Cornette had liked the promo I included with the package (I think it was my 'Slouching Towards Bethlehem' promo), and decided he'd give me one more match. At no pay, but I'd 'earned' that. Things went better this time, and I've been devoting a lot of time to OVW since._

_Cornette's gone now, the victim of his anger problem he's had throughout his life. He'll land on his feet, or at least I hope so. He's always loved this business._

_Fortunately, his replacement does also._

_So for now, I work here. After 3 ½ years of wandering all over the United States (and one tour of Japan), I practice my craft and hope for the glittering thread to come my way._

_One day…perhaps…but until that day, I have a job to do._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ohio Valley Wrestling promo recording. May 2006. Shot two days before a TV taping at the Davis Arena in Louisville.<strong>_

_("And…action!")_

Idol Stevens was a master of giving what some would call 'douche chills'. Considering he had Beth Phoenix (miles away from being the Glamazon, her current getup and expression would be bettered served as an 'innocent schoolgirl' in a pornographic movie) and Shelley Martinez, serving as the vamp to Phoenix's purity (and ironically, a few months away from playing as a vampire in another, very close company) on his arms, it wasn't hard to provoke them in and of themselves. But, with eyes hidden behind semi-transparent sunglasses and an arrogant smirk adorned on his features, Stevens completed the reaction from 'annoying' to 'I would enjoy giving strangers money to see someone appear to hurt him'.

"You know, sometimes it's good that someone wants a piece of you." Stevens said into the camera, admits the usual backdrop of the OVW locker room. "It's even better when TWO someones want it, and I, the marahaja of the 'ménage a troisja', certainly have quite a piece to give out…but sometimes, you just meet someone who only deserves a piece of your mind instead of a piece of your action. If anyone could even keep up." Stevens chuckled, wringing one last drop of the cocky horndog before becoming serious. "Astyanax Ble-you know what, I'm not even gonna bother with that. You're now known as Jackoff, because believe me, I know your types, and that's all you do. You think hanging around in the darkness, acting all mysterious and untouchable, makes you some sort of enlightened soul? No, what it makes you is a loser, just like all those envious slobs out in the audience. I'm a busy man, Jackoff, but don't let that fool you. I don't let anyone get away with what you pulled, let alone someone who insults my girls."

"Did he do that?" Beth said, in a little-girl-playing-dumb voice. Idol shot the blonde woman an annoyed glare.

"You like to talk, Jackoff. Well, talk is cheap. Tonight, the Idol's going to make you pay a far steeper bill. Tonight, you're not gonna talk. Tonight, the Idol's going to make you scream. TONIGHT, the Idol gets this monkey off his back. Then I can settle for doing…more enjoyable things…when it comes to backs." Stevens said. He then ended the interview as tended to, by seizing onto Shelley and falling off camera. Beth would be yanked down a moment later, and the stuff not-seen left to the imagination.

* * *

><p><em>(The funny thing about this little story is that, while my character has been established as liking to talk, I didn't do much here. The first part, two weeks ago, was myself and Stevens looking backstage at the current OHW Television Champion Seth Skyfire, the insinuation being both of us wanted the title. Stevens tried to declare that he was a bigger man than me, based on his two girls, and that I should step aside. I simply commented that with how slutty Shelley's character came off, he probably wasn't going to be a man much longer, and then walked off as he sputtered. Last week, he tried to jump me and beat me up. That worked until he tried a charge into a wall, during which I moved. Then he tried to charge into me again, and I moved again. Then Shelley slapped me, which I no-sold without any comment. Then I tried to walk past her, and she jumped on my back; at that point I wrestled her in front of me and tossed her into Aaron (who'd gotten up) before walking off. So, now he wants to beat me up before going after Seth, who beat him for the title back in March.<em>

_He can try.)_

* * *

><p><em>("And…action!")<em>

Unlike Idol, Astyanax's position in the building was harder to tell; the lights were dim and the muscularly-lithe man had put his back to a random wall, the camera fairly close to his face. He wore a dark blue and purple windbreaker, the hood pulled down as Astyanax stared off-camera for a few seconds. When he set his gaze on the screen, the intensity there was quiet, but potent.

"…Once there was a man, whose brain was like a sieve. The man had a monkey, it made him quite aggrieved." Astyanax said. His voice was a very carefully selected tone; not quite a whisper, not quite a normal speaking voice, and with its own self-assured quality.

The kind of gimmick Astyanax tended to work was an incredibly delicate one, especially since Scott Levy had hit such a home run doing his version of it as the Raven character. The independents were filled with people trying to replicate Raven, and mostly failing. Astyanax had taken a different tack: rather than try and copy the whole 'dark, broody, and eerily charismatic cult leader' vibe Raven had done in his best years, he did his best to NOT follow in Raven's footsteps, at least not overtly. As a result, while Idol Steven's confidence had been built on a belief that he was amazing and he knew it, Astyanax's was based more on the concept that he already knew exactly what was going to happen in regards to any interaction he had with Idol, and the whole thing amused him. Getting such an impression to stand out was not easy; a wrestling promo was, in the end, always about the wrestler's belief that they were going to win. Astyanax himself played it as always knowing, or potentially knowing, something his opponent didn't.

"The monkey ruled the man, it climbed inside his head…and when this night is done, you'll grasp just what I said." Astyanax said, one of his hands drifting up to his windbreaker hood. "You name me, so in turn I name you. False. And you claim me incomprehensible, so I say in turn…_falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus."_

The ghost of a smirk crossed Astyanax's face, and he shifted his hood up before walking off camera.

_("Cut. Annie, I don't think the Latin thing works. Let's do it again without it."_

"_It doesn't work? Maybe it's my delivery. Damn it, I like my Latin.")_

* * *

><p><em><strong>Two days later.<strong>_

_("Okay Aaron, I think I have a good idea for the match."_

"_Okay." Aaron Stevens, not currently 'The Idol' said, sitting with Astyanax in the locker room. As it turned out, they'd gone with the Latin-in version of Astyanax's promo. One day, Astyanax hoped he could get a large crowd to chant 'Speak Some English!' at him. It sounded like something you could clap along to._

"_All right. You're mad at me, and at the same time, you think I'm a waste of your time. So you start out aggressive…")_

"YEERRRRGGGHHH!" Idol yelled, scooping Astyanax up and slamming him down onto the mat. The impact rang through the arena, and also through Astyanax's back. Like a flash, Idol yanked Astyanax up and gave him another body slam, before pulling him up once more, this time firing off a side slam backbreaker. Astyanax felt the smaller, more intense impact radiate down his spine, but the move had been executed well and the pain was brief and fleeting. Covering Astyanax for the pin, Idol got two before the kickout.

_("Then, after about two minutes of that, you make a mistake.")_

After so many years of it backfiring, one could wonder why wrestlers made blind charges into ring corners. It seemed more trouble than it was worth. Idol Stevens was not the one who would learn that lesson though (more the pity considering what it had cost him, in story, the previous week), and hence he crashed into the turnbuckle when Astyanax moved out of the way. Astyanax made his error worse by leaping up and kicking out with both feet, driving Stevens face-first into the turnbuckle before sliding behind the wrestler as he staggered back, rolling him up for a two-count. When an angry Idol surged up from his kickout, Astyanax repaid the favor by giving him his own body slam, being careful not to let the wrestler's sweat-slick body affect his grip. Unlike Astyanax, Stevens wrestled in the classic wrestling tights, and hence had a lot more exposed skin than Astyanax; the dark-haired wrestler preferred a pants and sleeved-shirt style wrestling uniform. It cost more, but Astyanax had very good reasons for such a preference, and so far no promoter he'd ever worked for had made an issue of it.

_("After that, I control for a few minutes. This ends when you stop my attempted tornado DDT and turn it into your superbomb.")_

Getting dropped on your back was not easy. Getting forcibly driven down onto your back was harder; there was a reason Leon 'Vader' White had cause legitimate spinal injury with his powerbomb at least once. Doing it off the top rope was just tempting fate.

The fact that Astyanax landed as well as he could mattered little. The impact forced the air from his lungs, and his back momentarily became a field of fire, a thousand nerve endings screaming protest. Idol immediately dove for a cover, but the wrestler had 'unfortunately' done the move too close to the ropes, and Astyanax placed a foot on them to break the count. When Idol hooked his leg, Astyanax just grabbed the rope instead. Yelling in frustration, Idol stood up and kicked Astyanax out of the ring.

The fact that Astyanax was limping when he got back up was not lost on the 'marajaha'.

_("Now, here's the second part of the story Aaron. Your anger becomes focused on the fact that, even though you've hurt me, I haven't shown it. You promised to make me scream. So your tactics switch. Instead of just winning, you want to break my stone face. Show the world that despite all my high-falooting words don't mean anything, because I can be broken down like any man."_

"_What?" Aaron said, looking confused._

"_Basically, give the impression that you now really, LITERALLY, want to make me scream in pain."_

"_Well, yeah, but why focus on that entirely?"_

"_Well, I didn't seem impressed by your gimmick, nor by your ambush. Maybe the best way to impress me is to hurt me."_

"_You think this will work, Paul?" Aaron said, turning to the third man who had entered the room. Paul Heyman briefly put his hand on his chin, contemplating._

"_In a big arena, no, but these smaller venues can allow it. Still not easy to pull off."_

"_Care to try it anyway, Aaron?"_

"_Eh…yeah, sure. If it doesn't work we'll call something in the ring.")_

"YEAHHHHHH!" Idol yelled, lifting Astyanax's leg up and slamming it, knee-first, into the ring. It wasn't too hard for Astyanax to pretend it didn't hurt; Idol had expertly done the slamming move and properly dispersed the impact across Astyanax's leg. For another two minutes, Idol persisted in his attack, bashing Astyanax's leg repeatedly into the ground, the side of the ring, and the ring apron. Back in the ring, Astyanax 'surprised' Idol with a small package, but Idol kicked out and immediately sprang to his feet, kicking Astyanax in the face before stomping on his knee.

"HOW'S THAT FEEL, YOU-!" Idol said, slamming Astyanax's leg into the ring again. Astyanax rolled away and got up, holding the leg but keeping his expression (mostly) blank. Yelling in rage, Idol chop-blocked the leg out from under Astyanax, and, after rolling him back into the ring center, grabbed onto the injured limb, twisted it up, and dropped down into a stepover toehold sleeper, cranking Asytanax's leg up behind his back while he clamped his arms around Astyanax's neck and yanked backwards.

"HOW ABOUT NOW, HUH? HOW ABOUT NOW!" Idol yelled. Astyanax's reaction was an intense grimace, before he began crawling towards the ropes. The fact that half the building cheered when he grabbed them gave him some comfort. At least they weren't bored.

Forced to release the hold, Idol surged up, and with one mighty stomp, hammered Astyanax's knee into the ring again even before the darkly-attired wrestler could release the ropes. Finally, Astyanax screamed, the idea being the hold and the immediate follow up was (finally) too much for him to hold in. Turning around, Idol played to the crowd, celebrating this minor achievement as his two valets applauded him from ringside.

_("That's your mistake. You enjoy the fact that you got a reaction out of me too much. So when you turn around…")  
><em>Idol turned directly into the punch, doubling him over. Astyanax surged up, getting his 'good leg' up and over Idol's head, slamming him to the ground with a legdrop bulldog, better known by most as a 'Famouser.' Limping up, Asytanax shook his leg and looked down at Idol Stevens' rising form, before he ran the ropes…

_("Then I do my finish. Now, if I'm going to win, that will be it. If not, I'll do it with my 'hurt knee', and that will slow me into getting the cover. Then I'll try the Critical Wire, and you'll grab me, slam me down, and lock on your figure four and make me submit. Okay?"_

"_Don't see a problem. Paul?" Aaron said, looking at their booker._

"_Well, Astyanax is the wounded party here, but Aaron's the one who actually has a lost title that he wants back. Then again…")_

Idol stood up as Astyanax leapt towards his back, grabbing onto his shoulders and thrusting his knee up. Idol went with the motion, falling onto his face as Astyanax planted his knee against the back of Idol's head and rode him down.

Astyanax's knee slid down the side of Idol's skull, perfectly camouflaged by the descent. To the crowd, Astyanax had just used the blow to slam Idol's face directly into the ground with his knee. In fact, Astyanax had just thumped said knee into the canvas, but the illusion had been pulled off, and well. Rolling him over, vaguely hearing one of the commentators yelling his finisher's name (Sadistic Intent), Astyanax watched the referee slap the ring mat one. Two.

Three.

The bell rang as Astyanax stood up, still favoring his 'injured' knee. Phoenix and Martinez began entering the ring to get at their 'lover boy', only to stop when Astyanax glared at them. Gesturing for a mike, as his music cut off, Astyanax leaned down towards the dazed Idol Stevens.

"You can try and take me off my feet all you like." Astyanax said. "When's all said and done…I don't kneel to false idols."

Dropping the mike on Idol's chest, Astyanax left the ring. A few fans reached out hands, but Astyanax did not return the gesture. In a sense; he tapped his fist against the outstretched palms instead of slapping them. It was what his persona would do. Always closed, always stoic.

Unless circumstances said otherwise.

* * *

><p><em>("I think what we can do is have Seth declare next week that Idol's not deserving of a title match, and for some reason Astyanax didn't ask for one. Idol comes out mad that he's being passed over, especially with Astyanax not wanting the match. Then Burchill can get involved, we can have a three way dance. It'll end in a DQ when Idol grabs the title and tries to hit Burchill with it, and while you three fight….Astyanax comes out at the entrance for a moment. Like this is all part of a master plan. So, yeah, Astyanax, you can win tonight." Paul Heyman said.<em>

"_Thanks Paul. So, what do we do after that?"_

_Paul was about to answer when his cell phone rang. Holding up a hand, he answered it, murmuring a few words before turning back to the two wrestlers._

"_I need to take this. We'll talk later guys." Paul said, walking off._

"_All right." Astyanax said. "Well we have our finish, Aaron. Let's do what we get paid for."_

"_Yeah, paid. Paltrytaly…is that a word?"_

"_No, but good try. I'd have to check it for Scrabble.")_

"Thanks for selling the Intent so well, Aaron." Astyanax said as Idol emerged through the curtain. "I've had a few people not fall properly. Exposes the move."

"No problem. Where's Paul?" Aaron said, clearly hoping to hear a plan about future events that didn't involve him taking loses.

"He's still in his office." A new voice said. Holding the OVW Championship over his shoulder, CM Punk looked considerably more like his namesake now. Wrapping tape around his arms while leaning against a nearby wall, Aaron's two valets began passing him as they headed down the hallway. Martinez gave him a flirty look as she passed by, one that Punk returned. Astyanax rolled his eyes: Punk was an amazing wrestler and talker, but his personal actions could be less than pristine sometimes. Considering he was in a relationship with Maria Kanellis, the 'dim-bulb' announcer/wrestler-Diva, Astyanax didn't really care for the fact that he was directing his eyes at anyone else. Then again, that was his own personal opinion. Punk's reputation as a man-whore was fairly well known; Maria was not as stupid as the character she portrayed and should have known what she was getting into.

"He's been doing that a lot. What's going on?" Aaron said, drinking from a nearby water fountain.

"Something big? I dunno man, I'm not his confidant." Punk said, finishing one of his arms and working on the other. Astyanax didn't pursue the matter, sitting down in a chair and pondering the wall.

The former ECW owner did not make an appearance the rest of the night. Astyanax ultimately went home to the flat he was splitting rent with seven other wrestlers with and went to bed with no answers to what was going to happen. It was annoying; not knowing a set future storyline meant he had to drive to the arena, using gas he was having trouble affording, and give interviews or promos at another time, instead of now. Then again, it was Heyman. When it came to story, the man rarely disappointed.

Too bad he wasn't as skilled at business. That unfortunate fact was the reason there wasn't an ECW any more.

That, however, was soon to change.

* * *

><p><em>Paul ultimately told me that the crowd wasn't very into my match, and mostly because of me. My blankness came off wrong, off-putting instead of confident. It means that in two weeks Idol's gonna beat me down and take my place in a Seth Skyfire title match. Bugger and damnation.<em>

_Got to keep working on that. The crowd is everything in this business. Not everyone has to be the Rock, but never properly forging a connection means you end up with…well, there's a few names on that list. Andrew "Test" Martin comes to mind. It's a pity; he hit it out of the park during that one Summerslam with Shane McMahon. Another victim of the rise of Triple H, I guess._

_Still, a semi-bad crowd reaction better than some things. They could have been completely quiet._

_Or worse. I know there's worse._

_Cornette, while he worked here, told me a few stories of his manager days in the 80's, when he pretended to be a rich mama's boy whose money and loaded tennis racket (specifically, using it to help his teams and wrestlers win) made him so hated that he and his wrestlers had to have police escorts to get out of arenas, and sometimes even out of the ring. On one hand, that kind of heat is astonishing. On the other…_

_I'm kind of glad it's gone. Getting the crowd riled, making them scream and curse and maybe even throw things, I can get behind that (as long as they're not throwing stuff like car batteries or cups of urine. Ugh. This business sometimes). But having people in the crowd who legitimately want to kill you? That's a degree of reaction I can do without. I have nothing but respect for the old-timers who wrestled in the days when getting stabbed or having acid thrown on you if you were an effective heel was almost inevitable, and maybe we've lost something from those days, but quite frankly, it can stay lost._

_Some things, however, do not stay lost. _

_Sometimes, even companies._

_And in that…my first chance._


	3. Pitfalls

Chapter 3: Pitfalls

Writer's Note: Due to the story rating, I will be censoring stronger curses. Just so you know.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Late May 2006.<strong>_

_This business is not easy, but it's not easy in ways most people never understand until they've entered it._

_First of all, those massive stages of glory in those giant arenas? If you're lucky, you'll get used as enhancement talent on those. Breaking into the top of the business either means you're very lucky, insanely good (and sometimes not even that matters), or have the right connections. It's not a reason to give up on dreams, but it is a journey where how many steps in a thousand miles will become very apparent._

_Then there's the training, the making of a wrestler. You need to be in shape. If you have big muscles and a good look, so much the better, but having great cardio will carry you further, no matter how big or small you are. And of course, the pain. To choose this business to accept that you will face a lot of pain. Ironic for a sport that's based on pre-arranged combat where we're making a point NOT to hurt each other. Bitterly ironic, in the way life likes._

_I suppose I'm fortunate. I…can handle…pain._

_Then there's the bullshit, but that…is a story for another time._

_For me, it's the travel._

_Wrestling has always been about travel. You can't really stay in one area; no matter how good you are in the ring or in crafting the stories, eventually local fans will grow bored. Fresh blood is always needed and always desired (in theory). So you travel. The high end guys do it in planes, and the rest of us in trains and automobiles, but you log countless thousands of miles, for weeks, months, sometimes years on end. I think it's the traveling that most people aren't prepared for. You can work to get yourself in shape, you can try and prepare yourself for pain, you can accept that you'll be spending who knows how many years in smoky bars and tiny gyms…_

_But the travel, so many towns, so many miles…I think that'd the hardest part of all. You want proof, ask wrestlers about road stories. Or think of the tragedies. Joey Marella and Mike Kelley come to mind._

_I've put in my own travels. I have some luck; I drive a motorcycle when I can (a gift), which saves on gas (at the greater risk of bad injury during an accident, but I never was the type to doze off when I get really tired anyway). It works when it's warm; when it's cold, then I have to bum rides from others, and sometimes even buy bus tickets. I suppose I should count my blessings. I never worked in Canada during wintertime, for one._

_But nothing brings traveling's hardship to the fore like some things…_

* * *

><p>Astyanax should have known something was up when none of the other OVW members were going to accompany him to the SCW show. On the other hand, it wasn't like that he and the other talent were joined at the hip, and went around to shows in a group. There were a lot of independent companies out there, and people worked where they did.<p>

The name should have also been a tip-off. The name of the North Carolina-based company was Supreme Championship Wrestling. Independents with such grandiose names were often anything but. Still, one could not fault an owner/booker for wanting his company to seem important.

The last and final tip should have been when Astyanax arrived in the town of Henderson, made his way to the small gym that he'd been given, at 3 PM, and found the place absolutely deserted. Considering the show was scheduled for 7 PM, that wasn't a good sign. When 5:30 rolled around and the only other guy to show was a beanpole who claimed to be the SCW 'Interstate Champion' despite looking like a stiff breeze could push him over, the actual bad feeling had started. A slow trickle of similarly unimpressive specimens showing up over the next hour, along with about a dozen vaguely bored 'fans' had done nothing to help.

The final straw had been when Astyanax had finally met the runner/booker of the 'territory', Harper Klein. In that regard, it wasn't how Harper was constantly smiling (even when it seem inappropriate), or wearing jeans with a dress shirt and tie, or that he belched loudly and thought it was the height of humor that had done it. It was the sheer amount of GREASE on his hair that had finally cued in to Astyanax that he had made a terrible mistake. Poor fashion sense and a misguided sense of humor was one thing, but when one neglected one's appearance to such a degree that one could make an argument that a wholly new ecosystem was brewing on his scalp, it did not leave Astyanax was the best of impressions.

The state of the ring did little to calm Astyanax's mood. The ring ropes felt more like repurposed garden hoses than any proper cable, and the off-tinted blue mat had a few questionable stains. Still, it wasn't like Astyanax had to have a five star classic in it. He could do a simple, grapple and slam heavy match, and get out with a lesson learned about checking more with other people on places to work.

Then Harper had called him into his 'office', which was a smell pseudo closet with a metal desk and a chair that seemed to have been stolen from the nearest high school, to work on the match and meet his opponent.

In retrospect, SCW's champion didn't look half bad…in and of himself. Astyanax failed to notice: he immediately zeroed in the glassy state of the wrestler's eyes. When said wrestler gave him a loopy smile and proceeded to nearly fall off the wall he was leaning on, Astyanax turned and fixed his gaze on Harper.

"I am not wrestling him."

"What? He's the champion, he…" Harper started.

"HE'S HIGH AS A KITE." Astyanax growled. "Change the match and take him off the card."

"What? You want me to take the champion off the match cards? Are you stupid?"

"Make an announcement that he's hurt, and that you're putting the title up in another match. Then put it back on him and claim at the next show that he won it back in another city or state or a tournament in Rio de Janeiro, I don't care! I'm not wrestling him!"

"Look man, who's paying you?" Harper said, actually producing a wad of bills from inside his coat and waving it around.

"You couldn't pay me enough to wrestle with THAT." Astyanax said, pointing at his opponent.

"T-Multuous just needs a bit to cool down…"

"I am NOT wrestling a %$#&ing methhead." Astyanax snapped. "YOU can wrestle him if you want, but I'M not."

"Who the %$#& do you think you are, asshole? Hulk %$#&ing Hogan? You'll do what the %$#& I tell you to do." Harper snarled back, his eyes darkening.

"If you-" Was all Astyanax got out before Harper produced the revolver from his coat with his free hand. "Whoa."

"That's right. This is MY show, you %$#&. You wrestle who I tell you." Harper said, his face angry and shiny with grease. To his side, Astyanax heard T-Multuous give a nasty little chuckle. "And just for that, you can…"

Astyanax didn't let him finish; his leg snapped up and kicked the desk directly into Harper, slamming him up against the wall. The money Harper had been holding flew from his hand in a spray of slightly-moist paper, the 'promoter's' breath coming out in a pained wheeze, and his finger instinctively tightened on the trigger.

Astyanax was not in front of the gun, but his heart leapt anyway. Until the dry click sounded, and he realized the gun wasn't loaded.

Astyanax got rid of it anyway, grabbing Harper by the wrist and smashing his gun hand into the desk, the promoter emitted a shrieking cry of pain.

"Hey man don't-!" T-Multuous said.

Astyanax backhanded the semi-out-of it 'wrestler' as he came off the wall, sending him falling to the floor with a confused, pained grunt. Harper, taking advantage of the opening (as Astyanax was still using his other arm to hold Harper's wrist), promptly punched Astyanax in the head….which just hurt his own hand more than he hurt the wrestler's skull. Whirling back around, Astyanax seized Harper's disgustingly-greasy neck and slammed his head down against the desk.

"I have been ripped off by considerably worse than you, Mr. Klein." Astyanax said, and then slammed Harper's head into the desk a few more times for good measure. "But the size of a shitstain really doesn't matter much in the end."

Letting Harper go, Astyanax wiped his hand on his hands before reaching to gather up the dropped money. When T-Multuous grabbed his foot to protest, Astyanax kicked him in the head. He kicked him a few more times for good measure; you didn't have to like your opponents, but showing such callous disregard for their health by showing up wasted to this degree was a wholly different matter. If Astyanax hadn't been in a hurry, he might have kicked the drug addict right into a coma.

"Show's canceled." Astyanax said as he walked out into the hallway, where the remaining 'wrestlers' had gathered due to the noise. Astyanax did a very quick bill count to determine his fee and then tossed the rest of the money at them, using that act as a distraction to push past his confused fellows. "If you take any of that money, I suggest you follow my lead and not come back here."

Astyanax didn't bother hanging around to see if the wrestlers listened, and as he headed past the gym ring and the few people inside, he suddenly realized he shouldn't have thrown ALL the money at the wrestlers. Then again, he was the one who had driven this way only to be faced with a drugged-out opponent and a scumbag promoter who thought he could get his way with the threat of violence. The money they'd lost wasn't his concern; getting the hell out of town was. Pushing the fire exit open, Astyanax stepped out and trotted over to his motorcycle. Good thing he'd never gotten around to bringing his 'life on the road' bag into the gym. Now where were his keys…

Astyanax was inserting said keys into the motorcycle's ignition when he heard the gym door slam open again.

"YOU MOTHER%$#&ER!" Harper shrieked, staggering out of the gym door, a nasty bruise already rising on the side of his face. Astyanax snorted, bringing one hand to the side of his bike.

"I only did what you forced on me, asshole!" Astyanax yelled, drawing a crowbar from where it was sheathed on the left side of his bike. Road travel could sometimes have the oddest requirements, and a crowbar was a good all-purpose tool to have around. Doubly so since it made a good weapon. "If you want to press the issue-!"

Harper brought up the gun again, and Astyanax locked up in confusion. Why would-

The low barking noise was almost perfectly synchronized with the tinker of shattering safety glass as the bullet exploded the car window to Astyanax's immediate right. Every bit of angry defiance vanished from the wrestler, replaced with stark fear. He'd _had _bullets, just not in the gun. Then.

In a blind panic, Astyanax twisted the motorcycle's accelerator, causing his bike to shoot outward, the wrestler just managing to stop before he crashed into one of the few cars in front of him. Harper followed, the gun continuing to bark, even as Astyanax furiously twisted the motorcycle to the side. He heard a bullet thud into the trunk of the car he'd almost impacted against as he took off, not bothering for the proper exit and instead driving directly over a portion of grass and sidewalk to get to the road. A loud honking noise erupted to his left, the car driving down the road swerving to dodge the wrestler. Somehow, Astyanax managed to get the bike to turn again without falling over before he opened up the throttle full-tilt, blasting down the road and away from the gym.

It took him four seconds and an encroaching SUV to make him realize he was driving on the wrong side of the road.

Swerving as the honking van drove past him, Astyanax managed to look up just in time to see the light he was approaching flick yellow. Astyanax was halfway across when it turned red, which he was pretty sure meant that he hadn't run a light. Breath continued to explode from his lungs, and Astyanax realized that he'd had a death grip on the crowbar the whole time. He took a moment to slow down and sheath it, before he turned down another road and tried to remember the way out of town.

A few minutes passed before the cop car drove past him; Astyanax wondered if it was heading towards the obvious problem. By then, his breathing had slowed down, though his face was still sheened with sweat. Come to think of it, he should stop and get his helmet on, before a less-occupied police officer noticed it.

When he actually did so, Astyanax checked to see if the money he'd 'stolen' was still tucked in his pants. It was. Astyanax removed it, flicking through the bills. Well, it'd pay for a cheap hotel room and gas.

"All things considered, even _this_ isn't the worst show I've attended." Astyanax said. At least, in a sense, he'd been paid.

* * *

><p><em>Tom Billington was a genius in what he did…and unfathomably stupid in just about anything else.<em>

_His brilliance was in his craft, in what he contributed to professional wrestling. It rather shames me that so many girls who squealed over Jeff Hardy, or for every fan who ever chanted 'Holy Shit' when some lunatic dove off a fifteen-foot ladder, likely doesn't know the roots of where such wrestling came from. The man who practically invented it. Tom Billington. The Dynamite Kid._

_Why do I think of him now?_

_Because every time I end up facing an unexpected or unneeded risk, he comes to mind. Billington was very serious in his desire to become a professional wrestler, like so many others, myself included. Unlike myself, though, Tom was cursed with a stature as small as his talent was large. While I was given decent height and muscle tone by which to learn and work in this world, Tom was 5'8 and might have weighed 160 on a good day (at first, anyway). Tom tried to compensate for that, not only by using steroids to bulk himself up, but by doing anything to get people's attention. He's infamous for wrestling in Canada and doing a diving head butt out of the ring, onto an opponent who would always dodge, causing Tom to land face first on the unprotected concrete. Night after night. For years. He also compensated for the doubt and mockery he got for his size by being the nastiest bastard he could, but that's another story. What always stuck out to me were those nightly dives onto concrete. All so people wouldn't forget him._

_He didn't wholly fail. He's a legend in Japan, where the equally legendary Tiger Mask helped him create the high-flying wrestling style. He inspired who knows how many other wrestlers to follow in his footsteps. But between his size, his attitude, and all the painkillers he had to take for all those pointlessly crazy bumps, Tom Billington now resides in a wheelchair in England, the glories he wanted during his 80's heyday taken by the Hogans and the Warriors of the age, the ones who got paid all the money while he did all the great shows. I'd feel more sorry for him if he hadn't been such a miserable piece of shit to so many people. Karma's a bitch sometimes. A whole pound of them._

_Billington likely wouldn't have cared about this situation that just occurred. Or maybe he'd have taken the match just to try and hurt the drug addict (yes, technically I hurt the drug addict as well, but that was after he chuckled when his promoter buddy pulled a gun on me, AND after he put his hands on me. Some should claim I should have been a bigger man. I disagree and we'll leave it at that). Who knows. But he wouldn't have properly assessed the risk. In this business, risk assessment is the difference between ending up a Dynamite Kid and ending up a Shawn Michaels. Though considering the back injury Michaels recovered from, perhaps some divine intervention helps too._

…_I suppose that I have brought up the elephant in the room._

_Have I used steroids? Yes, some. Not many, and mainly because I'm very careful with what I put in my body. It's far too easy to be given a batch full of poison that kills you, and besides, I've learned that between working out and eating well, all I'm going to do with steroids is pack on unnecessary bulk. I'd rather legitimately increase my strength, and compensate for when I can't by other means. It's why my finisher, Sadistic Intent, is designed to work on any man of any size (larger men I just knock down to their knees before I do it). Will I do so in the future? Maybe. It may be illegal, but this business is filled with illegal actions. It's a part of its dark heart._

_There's also the fact that, with the pre-determined nature of this business, at least we are not cheating to win games or break records. Quite frankly, all the criticism the business gets for the S word should be directed elsewhere._

_Besides, steroids are far from the worst drug problem in wrestling. But that's another story._

* * *

><p>Astyanax had slept surprisingly well, all things considered, and after checking the local news to make sure the police weren't looking for him, had begun heading back to Louisville. He'd made two stops; first at a YMCA to work out and get some exercise, and then to a library to use the internet. Perhaps by fate, while composing an email to forward to all his wrestling contacts that SCW was a poison pill and had to be avoided, the email addressed to him popped up.<p>

_Hey Annie, it's Paul E. We need to talk. You around?_

* * *

><p>"Okay, first things first Astyanax. What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room. Got it?" Paul Heyman said. Having returned to the Davis Arena, Astyanax had been escorted into an office by Heyman, finding that OVW owner Danny Davis (who, despite his name, did not actually own the arena as well, or at least as far as Astyanax knew) was there was well. After some platitudes, Heyman had sat down and gotten down to business.<p>

"Got it." Astyanax said.

"We're planning to bring back ECW."

"…you're serious." Astyanax said.

"Yes. The WWE are going to revive it as its own separate brand. I'll be overseeing it. We'll be bringing back old faces, along with some new. I've talked with a few people, and they think that you could be one of them."

Astyanax felt a slight chill run through his veins.

"…Well…I'm happy that you think I am." Astyanax said. "Who else is there, besides me?"

"That's private for now. And it could still change, so don't get your hopes up too high." Heyman said. "But, if it does work, I think I can bring you in at a decent position."

"…There's a catch, isn't there?" Astyanax said.

"Yeah. We can't really have you doing this dark, creepy guy gimmick in WWE, Annie. Taker's pretty much got a lock on that. You, on the other hand, have done nothing in the business. No offense."

"None taken." Astyanax Bleak. It saddened and annoyed him, but he knew Heyman was right. There was a world of difference between Mark Calloway's 15 year WWE run and the handful of regional titles Astyanax had won over his 5 years.

"I do have something, though. I think it could work pretty well." Heyman said. Astyanax cocked his head, his mind drifting briefly back to a documentary on wrestling he'd once seen and how wrestler Darren Drozdov had been given a stupid gimmick based on his ability to vomit on command. Then again, there was a difference between Vince McMahon and Paul Heyman…

"…all right, Paul. I'm listening." Astyanax said, leaning back in his chair.

If anything, A new gimmick would lead to interesting looks on people's faces when they asked him for his real name. And that was the minor detail.

WWE was reviving ECW. They needed fresh talent, especially considering how battered and banged up most ECW veterans were.

Another step in the thousand miles.


End file.
